You have until MIDNIGHT TONIGHT (August 31st) to cast your vote for the slackmistress for the Hot Blogger Calendar! I'm still a few spots out of 12th place, so I need every vote you've got! And please spread the word!
Conversation with SlackDad, after seeing Bad Lieutenant.
SlackDad: You know what was wrong with that movie?
Me: Um, everything?
SlackDad: The nun was hot.
Me: You mean the nun who was raped?
SlackDad: In all my years of Catholic School, I never saw a nun who looked like that!
Conversation with Will, last night:
Me: I lot of people I went to high school with found God.
Will: Are they hot?
Will: Because if they're hot, it seems like such a waste.
I wondered this morning if I should blog that. And then I thought...What Would The Bloggess Do?
And I know you're not sick of this yet: please vote for me for the Hot Blogger Calendar! And while you're there, you could, y'know, vote for Will, too. Here's another photo of me playing WoW to help convince you:
Pee ess, that's a drill in the background. Perv.
I was an odd kid. Which is the apex of understatement. I could read before I was toilet trained, I carried around a plastic grizzly bear with huge fangs and glowing red eyes that I referred to as my baby, I learned that fuck was an at-home word, not a school word when I declared I wasn't a fuckin' lefty in kindergarten.
The only step further would to have taped a sign to my back that read KICK ME.
Junior high was a blur of a bad perm, getting kicked off of handbell choir (okay, that was slightly awsome), an assignment where we had to write our obituary and I penned she will be mourned by her pets and her plants, an array of embarrassing class rollerskating parties, reading 50+ books during a a semester in Mrs. Bogen's class on a bet, and bullies.
High School was no different, although by then I had pretty much figured out my place and in the social food chain. I left behind volleyball and basketball (all that running) to pursue theatre and speech team. Even normal teenaged activities (like accompanying my friend to buy her first pack of condoms) was tarred with the nerd brush since we insisted on talking in B ritish accents. Of course, we wouldn't have classified ourselves as nerds. We were avant-garde! We we dramatic! We were wordly!
We just, uh, couldn't figure out where the prophylactics were in the local Walgreens.
We were nerds.
If the above wasn't enough, upon the assignment of our first history paper for Mr. Haake's American History AP class ("write on the history of anything!" he told us, so I wrote about the history of sex. No, I didn't write it in a British Accent.) My friend and I came up with the brilliant idea that we were going to write two papers.
Any High School Nerd worth their weight in graphic calculators will tell you that the Nerdvana Comedy Hour isn't complete without a tour of Monthy Python's Flying Circus (which was not only on PBS late night, so we set our VCR's and passed around worn, bootlegged tapes) but could also be rented at the local (and wholesome!) Blockbuster, where we'd ask the 17 year olds to rent us David Lynch movies since they actually checked ID. (It was ART! I told a bored cashier who refused to rent to my 16-year-old self. You are keeping me from ART! I also didn't mention I had been watching R-rated movies since I was five because the SlackParents didn't really think a few boobs were a big deal.)
The paper wasn't a page; it wasn't two pages. My friends Amy and Jenna and I wrote a fully-researched and footnoted second history paper.
A few items of note:
My previous post reminded me of an incident that took place about eight years ago. The year was 2000, and I was living in one of those huge, soulless apartment buildings in Hollywood where all of the units looked exactly the same. Master bedroom with enclosed bathroom on one side and slightly smaller bedroom with adjacent bathroom on the other flanked a shared living room and galley kitchen. This place boasted huge ceilings and beautiful (faux) wood floors, but the fact is that was straight out of Apartments 'r Us.
The reason Older Slackbrother J. and I had elected to live there is that they didn't bat an eye about me owning a three legged pit bull named Peanut.
Wednesdays I work my shift at the gym. They usually go something like this:
9:37pm [Tuesday night]: Awesome, I'll get to bed in a couple of minutes and rock out seven hours of sleep!
9:42pm: I need to stop saying things like rock out.
9:47pm: The kids don't say "rock out" anymore, do they?
11:47pm: After an exhaustive google search, a smattering of MySpace pages, an IM conversation with a friend's daughter and four glasses of wine - a medical necessity on the last part. (I need to dull my senses before feasting my retinas on the visual vomit that is the 'Space so I don't collpase into an epileptic seizure.)
1:14am: If I fall asleep now, I can get three hours of sleep.
2:49am: I am totally awake. But I still get two more hours. Score!
5:01am: Dear Ex-Agent: I hope you come down with a raging case of crotch scorpions.
Then it's off to work. I shower, in the sense that I stand naked, half-asleep under the showerhead like a post-roofie cocktail sorority girl. I needed to wash my hair yesterday, as I was walking that fine line between super shiny and can I get grease with that?, but, y'know, I was going to work at the gym. Where I rent spin shoes to people. Where I pick up sweaty towels. The only glamorous part is when famous people sweat on me (this esteemed list includes: Nicole Kidman, Alicia Silverstone, and Justin Timberlake.)
In short: I look like a sleep-deprived chubby, greasy-haired zombie who's just been through a gangbang with with bunch of ultramarathoners who have neglected to shower post-race.
(But, y'know, I have a good personality.)
Post-work, I headed out to the grocery store to pick up stuff for dinner. I needed to hit both the Ralph's and the Trader Joe's, so I pointed my car East toward LaBrea where the stores are located across the street from each other. I was in the Trader Joe's in the dairy aisle (picking up feta cheese for that evening's greek chicken salad) when I noticed him staring at me.
He caught me looking and looked away, so I took a moment to study his face. I may forget your name, but I never forget a face. Nope, not even remotely familiar. Slight fauxhawk, big sunglasses. Sort of generic hipster. I continued shopping. I could feel him still staring at me, and I began to wonder if maybe he was a blog reader? The only place I ever ran into readers was in the Trader Joes.
I reached over someone to grab a package of smoked turkey breast when I realized that someone was him. He smiled.
I'm sorry, he told me, I can't stop staring. I find myself inexplicably drawn to you. He had a slight British accent.
Maybe I look like your sister, I responded, none-too-helpfully.
He laughed. I shouldn't say inexplicably, he said. Actually, you're totally my type. I just, I've never seen someone who just was completely my type.
His voice shook a bit. I realized he was nervous.
Is that crazy? he asked, I would ask--
I held up my left hand. Thank you so much, I told him, but I'm married.
He laughed, almost relieved.
Okay, then. He turned to walk away. Wait.
Happily? he asked.
Happily, I responded.
He's a lucky man. And you can't blame a bloke for trying!
We went our separate ways. I was at the checkout when he finished up at the checkout a few aisles down, and he waved as he left.
Clearly the key to sexiness is looking like you don't give a shit. If I hadn't showered, I'd be Eva frickin' Mendes.
... Also: a many thanks to The Bloggess for listing me as one of the people who she'd want at her dinner party. I don't think I'll steal a baby, since they can't hold their liquor. Showering is currently undecided.